


Thick and Thin

by arsenic_kiss_221



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Big Brother Mycroft, Even though he won't admit it, Feels, Gen, Implied Mystrade, Kidlock, M/M, Mild Angst, Mycroft really cares, Past Drug Use, Protective Mycroft, University Student Sherlock, like seriously though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-07-21
Packaged: 2018-02-09 20:32:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1996863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arsenic_kiss_221/pseuds/arsenic_kiss_221
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Holmes boys look at each other. Neither smile nor show any outward sign of affection, yet there is a silent understanding of what stands between them. Long ago are the days when Sherlock would come to Mycroft’s bedroom in the middle of the night whenever he was frightened. Long ago are the days when the world could tell exactly what Sherlock Holmes was thinking or feeling.<br/>Yet, somehow, Mycroft still knew.<br/>“I can pull some strings.”</p><p>25 glimpses into the childhood development of the Holmes boys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thick and Thin

            1. Mycroft hears a soft knock at his door. He sighs through his nose, forcing down the twisted smile that threatens to reveal itself on his face, and set aside his book.

            “Come in.”

            The brown curls are all he sees for a moment as he turns his head away from his desk until his youngest brother bobs his way to stand next to him. The eight-year-old gazes at him with large blue eyes, his frow creased in worry.

            Mycroft doesn’t ask his younger brother what is bothering him, because the eldest Holmes boy already knows, and furthermore it’s doubtful that the child would tell him anyways. That was Sherlock all over; grandiose to the extreme over minute details and small nuisances, but reserved and guarded about the emotions that actually mattered.

            It was most likely Redbeard again. The dog had been put down two weeks ago, and although Sherlock attempted to hide his red eyes and the fact that he still snuggled with the jumper covered in red fur that he had been wearing as he held his dog during his last moments, Mycroft knew. He had always had an eye for detail, and it was hardly a difficult deduction to understand that Sherlock missed his companion.

            Wordlessly, Mycroft picks up the boy, an easy task considering Sherlock’s naturally thin and scrawny frame, and carries him over to his bed in the corner of his bedroom. Tucking the blankets under his brother’s chin, he sits down on the comforter close to him, pulling a book into his lap from his bedside table.

            Mycroft flips to the bookmarked page and begins to read.

            “History has had famous bearded men and infamous men named after their beards.Thus we have Blue Beard, the serial killer and, Red Beard the killer pirate of the middle ages…”

           

            2. “Myc, Myc!!!”

            “What is it Sherlock?”

            “Come see what I’ve found!”

            Small feet patter feverishly down the hallway while Mycroft ambles leisurely behind. He was never one to hurry.

            “Look, look, look!” screeches the nine-year old.

            “Sherlock, that’s just a bee. _Apis mellifera_ to be precise. It’s really nothing.”

            Sherlock’s small, boyish face falls slightly, his expression remaining guarded but his disappointment in Mycroft’s reaction and embarrassment in his own excitement apparent in his eyes.

            Mycroft remembers what it was like to be young, to believe that the world is full of mystery and wonder, with adventure and new discovery around every corner. Now, though, at seventeen, he clearly grasps that secrets are for those who are unable to observe or dig for the truth, and that the man who holds all the keys to the mysteries of the world then holds the upper hand compared to those around them. Mystery is a convention for the naïve.

            Yet, one look at Sherlock and he relents.

            “If you think that the bee itself is interesting, you should study their social patterns with other bees. Colony mentality is an amazing thing to observe, Sherlock.”

            The boy’s face lights up and he dashes off to find a hive. Mycroft smirks.

            Let his brother remain young for awhile longer.

 

            3. Mycroft pulls Sherlock close to him on the floor of his bedroom, their backs leaning against the base of his bed. He clicks the TV volume higher on the remote to drown out the shouting travelling up from downstairs.

            “Alvin, I called the office hours ago and they said you had already left! It’s past midnight now…”

            “Violet, keep your voice down. The boys…”

            “Damn the boys, I want to know why you’re always out so late!”

            Mycroft turned the television up until the sounds of Inspector Morse take over. He glances down at Sherlock who is glancing worriedly at the door of Mycroft’s bedroom, obviously still absorbed in the disruptive fight happening downstairs. Mycroft sighs.

            “Sherlock, how about we play a game instead of watching telly? I can teach you how to gather clues and solve mysteries just like Inspector Morse, if you want.”

            The blue eyes bounce manically from the door to the face of his big brother.

            “Yes, Myc, please do!”

            As the fight escalates downstairs, Mycroft begins to teach his brother about the science of deduction.

 

            4. Public school was as much a disaster for the youngest Holmes boy as it was for the oldest.

            He can taste the blood in his mouth as he bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from screaming, from bursting when he walks in to the bathroom of the primary school, following the tracks of the scuffle he had seen outside.

            Sherlock locked in a bathroom stall, the sniffles and muffled sobs muted through the aluminum, and the five young boys crowded outside pounding on the door.

            He walks over, carefully measuring his steps to intonate at an authoritative clip, making sure not to betray any of his anger or his fear for his brother. The boys look over, their expressions morphing into shame and terror at the older student’s presence.

            “Don’t say anything, just go. And if anything of this sort happens again, I can assure you that authorities will become involved. Don’t think you will get away with it, I will know if this happens again. Now… scuttle.”

            The five pairs of trainers bolted towards the exit and a moment later Sherlock slowly opens the door to find Mycroft staring icily at him. His scrutinizing gaze analyzes the blood, the tears, the bumps and bruises as Sherlock struggles to regain his composure. Then, Mycroft opens up one of his arms and Sherlock runs into the protective figure of his much larger older brother, burying his face into the navy blue uniform the oldest Holmes sported. Mycroft places a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, looking down at his youngest sibling with a guarded look that held just a twinge of sadness in its icy expression. They stand like that for a few long moments before Mycroft lets go.

            “Come Sherlock, let’s go home.”

           

            5. Sherlock begins to start watching football matches on the telly instead of studying the bees in the apiary Mycroft and he constructed in the backyard. He abandons his textbooks in exchange for popular magazines.

            When Mycroft asks him about it, Sherlock glares at him, daring him to question his actions.

            “It’s what everyone else likes. My classmates don’t read textbooks or watch bees, Mycroft.”

            Mycroft can read the subtext. _“I’m not like them, Mycroft.”_

He doesn’t have the heart to explain to his brother that no, he is not ordinary and that he never will be. He’s a Holmes, gifted with a streak of genius and a predisposition towards alienation.

            Instead he shrugs and retires to his room to study for his upcoming exams for university.

            Sherlock returns home the next day with a new bruise blooming on the side of his cheek.

            The next day Sherlock goes back to the apiary and begins mixing concoctions in the junior chemistry set Mycroft had got him for his birthday.

            “Ordinary people are boring, Mycroft,” he responds when his older brother asks him about this sudden switch.

            Mycroft can read the subtext. _“I’m not like them, Mycroft, and I never will be.”_

           

            6. “Sherlock, there are some things that are best kept hidden, even if they seem so apparent to you.”

            “Mycroft, it isn’t _my_ fault that father’s been having an affair. And God, it was so obvious, how did mother not already know?”

            “She did know, Sherlock. How did you not also deduce that?”

            “Then Mother is the one at fault for not addressing the issue before I told her I knew, and Father is obviously at fault for having an affair in the first place. I don’t see why you’re reprimanding me.”

            Mycroft looks at his indignant brother.

            “And if Mother knew about the affair without my having to tell her, why did she not do anything about it?”

            “Decisions made by the heart are never logical, brother dear. It’s best to just not get involved.”

 

            7. “Why are Mother and Father staying together, Mycroft. It doesn’t make any sense; they’re both unhappy.” _I made them unhappy…_

“They care for each other, even if they hate each other. They care for us, even though they would make more logical decisions if they didn’t.”

            Sherlock looks over at Mycroft. His curly hair is overgrown, his cheeks beginning to obtain their knife like shape against his pale skin. He looks thinner than usual, and Mycroft is even surprised that he’s speaking to him or even out of his bedroom. It had been days…

            “Caring is disadvantageous to logic,” Sherlock snarls.

            Mycroft nods absently.

            Looking back, he might have nailed the coffin shut in that one instance.

            Sherlock looks back at him, glancing over him quickly before haughtily announcing, “You’ve put on five pounds the past month Mycroft. Too many doughnuts before your long exams?”

 

            8. Sherlock no longer retires to Mycroft’s room when their parent’s fights roar downstairs. 

            Mycroft almost seeks Sherlock out.

            But that would be hypocritical.

            He himself had told Sherlock to not get involved in matters of the heart. It would hardly do to get involved in Sherlock’s.

 

           

            9. Mycroft leaves for university, a prestigious one at that located in central London, the perfect location for his desires to climb the ranks of government and be a politician.

            Sherlock doesn’t leave his room to see him off. Instead he finds a note on the seat of the car.

            _Take care Mycroft. And may I suggest that you lay off the doughnuts. Fat politicians are statistically less likely to succeed._

_~SH_

Mycroft doesn’t know whether to laugh at his brother’s callousness or cry at the cementing of the growing distance between them, brought on by Sherlock’s antisocial behavior and Mycroft’s pursuance of his career.

            He decides to do neither, and instead pockets the note, staring icily forward during the drive to London.

 

            10. Sherlock moves his pawn forward another block, glancing at over at his brother to indicate it’s his turn.

            Fairy lights twinkle around the Holmes residence, and the large evergreen tree in the corner sparkles with ornaments and smells of the deep woods.

            This is likely the last Christmas Mycroft will be spending home in the near future. His new undercover job in the British government will require a lot of time away from home, and the utmost secrecy as well. Personal encounters will become more difficult to uphold.

            “How’s the university search, Sherlock?”

            “Dull.”

            Mycroft moves his castle three to the left.

            “Mummy told me you’re exams went well. And your grades are remarkable. It should be easy.”

            “Easy is boring.”

            Sherlock moves his queen. A pause.

            “Mummy thinks you need to spend more time socializing and less on your studies.”

            Sherlock moves his knight.

            “Friends. Not really my area.” He looks into his brother’s eyes, blue meeting blue. Mycroft is startled by the impassive, rigid mask he is now facing, devoid of emotion and upholding only logic and objectivity.           

            Sherlock sneers. “Checkmate, brother mine. Merry Christmas.”

 

`11. _Dear Sherlock,_

_Congratulations at your acceptance to Cambridge. I understand that you will be leaving to begin your first semester there momentarily. I wish you all the best on your new endeavours, and apologize for my recent absences; work has been very busy._

_I would love to stop by to visit you at university if you would like. Please respond with an affirmative so I can have my secretary begin planning the arrangement._

_Mycroft_

 

12\. Two months later, Mycroft still has not received a reply.

 

13\. To say he is shocked when he opens his front door to find his spindly younger brother standing before him, leaning casually against the porch banister and smoking a cigarette is an understatement.

            “I need money, Mycroft.”

            “How did you find me?” As a large member of a very secret government operative, Mycroft had been assured that his location would be impossible to find. Except here was his brother, after months (almost a year?) with no contact, standing on his stoop.

            “Really Mycroft, the return address of your most recent letter was a very good starting point. From there, it was hardly difficult to determine your actual address.”

            “Would you like to come in for tea? How’s university going?”

            “I need money, Mycroft.”

            Sherlock is thinner than usual, dark circles apparent under his eyes, and he’s wearing a long sleeve navy blue shirt even though the temperature is quite warm, at least by London standards. His curls are limp, as though he hadn’t washed in days, and the impassive face he so often wore had chipped slightly.

            He looks almost sad.

            Mycroft gives him some cash and tells him to come visit for tea sometime. Sherlock leaves not forgetting to yell, “Lay off the cakes, My, you’ve gained another five,” before going.

            “And you’ve lost twice that,” Mycroft mumbles under his breath.

            That night Mycroft makes himself primary medical contact for his younger brother. Just in case.

           

            14. Nothing would have prepared him for the call.

            “Is this Mycroft Holmes?”

            “Yes.”

            “We’re contacting you on behalf of your brother, William Sherlock Scott Holmes. He’s badly injured, we’re taking him into hospital right now.”

            “What happened?”

            “He jumped out of a four-story window.”

           

            15. “Sherlock, it has come to my attention that you have been, how shall I put this, _dabbling_ in illicit substances.”

            No response.

            “Sherlock, I hope you can see that this course of action is ultimately unacceptable. Now that it has come to light, it cannot be allowed to continue. I’m sure you understand why.”

            Sherlock looks at his older brother then, his head whipping around to meet his stare, the action erratic and dangerous, instantly reflecting the primal rejection he feels for that notion. Sherlock catches himself and struggles to regain a composed, objective exterior before he answers.

            “I really don’t see what for, Mycroft. Never been better.”

            Mycroft makes a noise that somewhere between a snigger and a laugh, the inflection of the noise bouncing from high to low, indicating condescension.

            “Brother mine, _you jumped off a roof._ ”

            “I wanted to prove that my physics calculations were correct. I deduced that if I leapt off the window at exactly 30.8 meters per second of velocity, using the momentum to…”

            “So you jumping out a window was a science experiment, not a suicide attempt.”

            A brisk nod, as edged as possible considering Sherlock was in a neck brace.

            “And what were the drugs then?”

            “Experiment.”

            “They can’t continue.”

            “You can’t force me to stop.”

            Mycroft excuses himself, grabbing himself a cup of coffee to hide the sudden sag of his step and the shuddering of his shoulders.

           

            16. Mycroft cuts off Sherlock’s monthly stipend, instead paying for Sherlock’s room, board, meals, and tuition himself. With no money, Sherlock will hopefully go off the habit.

            His secretary brings him updates on Sherlock’s whereabouts and any trigger warnings on a weekly basis.

            That on top of the current democratic attempts happening in the former Soviet Union, the tension in North Korea, and the most recent British terrorist threat, has Mycroft losing sleep and drinking more lattes to keep himself going.

            He gains three more pounds.

 

            17. The first time he met Gregh Lestrade, Mycroft had instantly liked him.

            “I put him in his own cell, away from all the others. Safer there, especially because he’s a bit… different. Would’ve caused trouble.”

            “He would’ve or the other cellmates?” Mycroft asks.

            Lestrade breaks into a slow grin, tired but still retaining a sense of humor. “Both, I guess.”

            “How high was he?”

            “Blasted. Honestly, surprised he didn’t overdose. I actually think he made a speedball.”

            Mycroft can taste the blood in his mouth as he bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from screaming, making sure not to betray his anger and fear for his brother.

            “Thank you, Lestrade. What do I owe you?”

            “Nothing.”

            Mycroft pulls out his checkbook, fixing the man with his official stare.

            “Name your price. Any price, mind. Don’t be shy.”

            “Honestly, Mr. Holmes, I would love to have that boy off the streets and cleaned up. Not because he’s a menace, but because he doesn’t belong there. He can do better. You owe him that… hell, _I_ owe him that even.”          

            Mycroft regards the man in front of him. Obviously struggling through a difficult marriage, exhausted by his job, but a good man at heart. One who cares, cares enough to twist laws and bend rules in order to help those he deems worthy of assistance. Which just so happened to include Sherlock.

            The two men had that weakness in common, it seemed.

            “Please,” Mycroft stated, placing his checkbook in his pocket. “Call me Mycroft.”

 

            18. The first family Christmas they’ve had together in years.

            “Do Mummy and Daddy know about your addiction, Sherlock?”

            “Do Mummy and Daddy know that you are essentially in control of the British secret service, Mycroft?”

            Mycroft moves his castle three to the left.

            “Don’t be silly. I’m a minor component of the inner workings of the government, nothing more.”

            “And I do not have an addiction, a mere habit I take up recreationally from time to time.”

            Sherlock looks into his brother’s eyes, blue meeting blue.

            “They care about you, you do know that Sherlock. Despite all their shortcomings through our youth and now, they are good people. And they care.” _I care…_

“Caring is a weakness, a component of the losing side.” Sherlock moves his queen. “Someone told me that long ago.”

            He looks up snidely at his brother. “Checkmate.”

 

            19. Mycroft is no longer so shocked that Sherlock can so easily find out his supposedly secret address.

            “I need money Mycroft.”

            “I will not give you money to fuel you addiction, Sherlock.”

            “No...” there is a pause, before the skinny scientist continues. “I need it for rehab.”

            Mycroft doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

            He decides to do neither, instead ushering Sherlock into the drawing room of his apartment, before fixing him some coffee and a sandwich, staring icily forward as he writes the check.

            It’s the easiest check he’s ever written.

            Sherlock makes no comment about his weight. Instead, before he leaves, he turns at the door, a lopsided, tired grin on his face.

            “Thank you.”

            When the door closes Mycroft pours himself a drink and is astounded by the tears that fall down his face.

            _Decisions made by the heart are never logical._

 

            20. Mycroft picks Sherlock up from rehab to take him back to the Holmes residence for a relaxing weekend before he is reinstalled into an apartment of Mycroft’s choosing in London.

            Mycroft doesn’t ask his younger brother what is bothering him, because the eldest Holmes boy already knows, and furthermore it’s doubtful that Sherlock would tell him anyways. That was Sherlock all over; grandiose to the extreme over minute details and small nuisances, but reserved and guarded about the emotions that actually mattered. He remained staring out the window, the dark shadows etching his cheekbones.

            Halfway through the ride Sherlock turns. “I need another outlet, Mycroft. Another way to occupy myself. Otherwise…”

            The Holmes boys look at each other. Neither smile nor show any outward sign of affection, yet there is a silent understanding of what stands between them. Long ago are the days when Sherlock would come to Mycroft’s bedroom in the middle of the night whenever he was frightened. Long ago are the days when the world could tell exactly what Sherlock Holmes was thinking or feeling.

            Yet, somehow, Mycroft still knew.

            “I can pull some strings.”

 

            21. Sherlock sits on the floral patterned couch of the Holmes residence, wrapped snuggly in a blanket with a piping cup of tea next to him, courtesy of Mother Holmes. Inspector Morse is on the telly.

            Mycroft sits next to his brother. Sherlock doesn’t acknowledge his presence. They watch the program in silence. At the end of the program, Mycroft turns to his brother.

            “Sherlock, how would you like to be a detective?”

            Sherlock’s eyes light up, something Mycroft has not seen in a long time.

 

            22. It isn’t hard to convince Lestrade to allow Sherlock to become a consultant on some of his more difficult cases.

            “He’s brilliant, Mycroft. Sees through all the bullshit, pardon my language, and is able to solve the case in a quarter of the time of my best guys. And myself,” he admits, laughing.

            “Thank you again, Lestrade, for allowing him to do this.”

            “Well it’s not like we’re paying him, so it’s not an issue with me. And please, call me Gregh.”

            “Thank you, Gregh.”

            “Whatever keeps that boy off the streets. I’m glad he’s chosen to clean up.”

            “Yes, I am as well.” Mycroft leans back in his leather, cushioned chair, ushering for his secretary to bring him a diet cola.

 

            23. “You’ve given up smoking?”

            “Nice deduction skills, Mycroft. You still haven’t given up the cake.”

            “I have, actually. New diet.”

            “And how’s that working for you?”

            “Fine, thank you.”

            “No, it’s not.”

            “Yes, and how are the nicotine patches working for you?”

            “Fine, thanks.”

            “No, they’re not.”

 

            24. John Watson was an interesting addition to his brother’s life. Soldier. Doctor. Upstanding moral code and natural sense of adventure.

            Either his brother’s undoing or his savior.

            He hoped it was the latter.

            It would certainly make his job much easier. And maybe without the added stress of worrying about his brother he could worry about losing those last ten pounds.

            He hoped that Sherlock’s words, _“Caring is a component of the losing side,”_ also applied to losing weight.

 

            25. John Watson shuffles his feet, nursing the aged scotch Mycroft had presented him. Their weekly “conferences” about Sherlock were inconvenient for both of them, but they both dealt with that. It had been a rough week at 221b. Not that John would admit to it, but Mycroft could tell. That and surveillance had shown John storming out of the flat multiple times.

            “Mycroft, why does Sherlock always say he has no friends, and why does he take pride in his isolation?”

            Mycroft sighs, twiddling the umbrella in his hand.

            “My brother decided long ago that it was easier to distance himself from people than attempt to connect with them because he never quite understood how people worked. He made the decision long ago to hide his feelings, to revel in his loneliness. And decisions made by the heart are never logical…”

            “If he only looked around he’d see that he’s only where he is because people care about him.”

            Mycroft looks down, attempting to mask the wave of emotions he feels at the words.

            “Yes. Perhaps one day he will see. One can only hope.”


End file.
